The week before Christmas, my granddaughter Lily looked up from my sewing room window seat and said, very quietly,
“Grandma, I heard Mom say you won’t be here for Christmas this year.”
I actually laughed.
In my head it sounded like one of those sweet, scrambled things kids repeat without understanding. Kids overhear half a sentence, twist it into a story, and suddenly you’re the villain who stole Santa’s sleigh.
“Of course I’ll be here, sweetheart,” I told her. “This is my house. Where else would I go?”
Lily didn’t laugh.
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